Alone in the Breach
by John Bethany
Summary: Sequel to 3 Miles Apart set in Operation Market Garden. Only place i could think of putting it, sorry! Chapter 7 now up. Violent and sweary content.
1. Unforseen Foes

The gentle lapping sound of leaf over leaf filled the September air in the outskirts of Oosterbeek. The sun flickered and broke through the gaps in the trees, spreading the light across the pallet of the grass, making new and dazzling forms of green appear from the murk of each blade. The beaten paths lead back and forth from the nearby cities and towns, like branches echoing from the trees that lined the way. These trees outlined the fields and open grassland of Holland, this was the perfect time of year to visit such a glorious place. Yet it was not the perfect year. Five years previously, a maniacal tyrant issued the command to spread his insidious regime across the face of Europe, coating the continent in a layer of cancer. Now was the time to stand against the tyrant and his machines of evil, it was war.

It was the 17th of September 1944. Soldiers marched and tramped their way through the relaxing heat of the autumn climate, it was much better than the drear back home that greeted them every morning with undying persistence. These were the proud members of the 1st Battalion of the British 1st airborne. They had to march through the picturesque and blissful sights of Holland to reach their destination: Arnhem. This was Operation Market Garden.

Earnings dragged his feet behind him; he was upset. He had been doing so well with the squad of Americans in France, they had liberated many towns, freed many peoples, done so much for the French. And now he was reduced to the solemn boredom of traipsing through Holland on a risky mission that could have easily been avoided.

He trailed after Captain Clements, the commander in charge of Earnings' squad. He was a dignified person with a full head of golden blonde hair. It shimmered like woven strands of sunlight, yet retained a quality often found with grime and dirt that shook the other soldiers off the idea of Clements immaculate hair. He looked back to the squads that followed him, "Haway lads!" he exclaimed, "You see those buildings up ahead? That's Oosterbeek, we're nearly there!" a dull cheer shimmied through the men; they weren't impressed. Clements took no notice of the men's lack of appreciation and kept his way toward the city that stood before them.

Earnings rolled his thumb around the bolt-action of his Lee Enfield rifle; it had been months since he had had to use one of these; could he still remember? A burning question began to echo and bubble inside his head, "Why haven't we seen any Germans on this stretch of road?" he muttered to himself. One of the soldiers next to him leaned in and whispered to him, "'Cos all the Gerries are big girls blouses, they don't have the balls to meet the lads of the 1st Airborne" he grabbed his crotch and made provocative gestures. His mate nudged him with the butt of his rifle and hissed, "Shut up you daft bastard, they Krauts could be anywhere. Stay on guard." Both soldiers dropped back into formation and continued the march.

Clements was perplexed; according to the allied plans of the area, there should be German squads patrolling this stretch of road. There had to be some manner of German presence near here. He pulled out his annotated map of the area; on it in his own scrawled handwriting were the exact number of German squads and information regarding the mission. This was baffling.

A shrill cry from behind pulled him back from his deep thought, "Panzers! Inbound! Everybody scarper!" All the soldiers began sprinting for their lives, the grumbling murmur of tanks emerging from the pleasant grassland they had so easily overlooked. Trundling from behind the battalion was a division of tanks, hulking grey demons that brought death with each stride. The heavy machineguns opened up the road with beating force, catching unfortunate soldiers in the path of their bullets. Clements galloped ahead of the dying men calling to them, "Get into the town, build a defensive perimeter!"

The men skidded into the entrance of the town and scattered like bugs into the safety of the darkened corners. The majority hid the large manor-esque building, Captain Clements and Sergeant Earnings included. The men hid in the back of the house, in the kitchen. The walls were painted a scum brown that somehow resembled the state of the food that was left simmering in the cooker. Clements scratched his head, "Fucking tanks, why weren't we informed about them?" none of the other soldiers responded. Clements turned to Lieutenant Broderick, "What do we have in the way of anti-tank weapons?" Broderick too scratched his head and toyed with the catch of his gun, "Well sir, we lost most of the PIAT's when those tanks came at us, so I guess all we have left are the Gammon bombs." Clements wasn't happy. Gammon bombs were very rudimentary grenades that could easily blast holes through the thickest of armour. The problems came with the distance you had to throw them at in order to get a good hit against a tank. It was too risky.

As Clements thought, the tanks ploughed straight into the border of Oosterbeek and began searching for the hiding soldiers. Then, without warning, one tank emptied a shell into the manor building, completely puncturing its structure and bringing down the front of the building. The men inside the kitchen had no clue what was going on, masonry fell down and broke through the walls, hitting a few unlucky soldiers. The rest shrunk back to the end of the room.

Earnings looked upon the face of his worried captain, they needed a miracle. Then it came to him, "Sir," he yelled to beat the sound of the falling building, "we could use a gammon bomb on one of the tanks tracks, rush it, then use the turret to take out the rest." Clements knew it was a major risk, but it had to be done. He signalled to two other soldiers, "Broderick, Smith, keep your lugs on the wireless in case we get a message from one of the other battalions. Earnings, Baker, you're with me. Let's show these German bastards who's in charge."

The three men crept out what remained of the manor building from the back. The garden was lush with vegetation, all swimming in the sunlight, while the hedges sighed and ruffled themselves in the shade. A thick cloud of dust had collected around the garden and was smothering the flowers. Clements peeked around the corner to the tank as it swirled its turret searching for enemies to obliterate. He indicated to Baker who held the gammon bomb to make his advance. Baker slid down the side of the building and activated the grenade. Keeping a firm hold on the wall with one hand, he threw the grenade at the tanks tracks and shielded his face.

The bomb addressed the hit with a screech of tearing metal and the left-hand tracks of the tank collapsing limply to its side. Clements cried to Baker and Earnings, "Rush the tank! Rush the fucker!" both men readied their weapons and jumped onto the side of the tank. Earnings clambered onto the roof of the vehicle and yanked back the hatch covering the tanks entrance. Baker let several round from his Sten loose into the beast, while Clements hurled a grenade inside. All three men hopped off the tank just as the grenade went off, spraying blood and offal out the holes in the tanks side.

Clements looked pleased by their actions, "Now lets get this turret sorted out. Henrys, Doncaster, get out here and into this tank!" the two men appeared from different houses in the street and pulled themselves onto the tank. Earnings yelped to them, "Stop! Get away!" as the second tank nosed around the corner. Its machineguns blared once more and cleaved gaping holes into both Privates Henrys and Doncaster. Clements, Earnings and Baker ran back behind the manor, just as the tank opened fire with its cannon. The empty tank blew itself wide open, sending a cascade of fiery oil into the atmosphere.

Earnings pulled back his breath as the three men stood aghast at the back of the house. Clements slammed his weapon against the house wall, "Jesus Christ!" he exclaimed, "These Germans are possessed. They're going to fight us till their last breath, the crazy bastards." He mopped his brow and called into the house, "Broderick, Smith, any news from the other battalions?" Broderick's voice shouted back, "2nd battalion is held up near the bridge, I suggest we go assist. They don't have much hope of lasting long." Clements huffed, "Neither do we from the looks of things, Broderick"

From the near distance came the crackling and hissing of small-arms fire. Baker looked tense, "Captain, I hear weapons fire. I think they've brought infantry." Clements walked back to the tank wreck and heard the buzzing of rifle fire from the houses in the street. "Fucking hell, we need to get out of here," he began panicking, "Er….right…um…alright lads. Let's move." He ordered all the men to come out the back of the house and get in a ready position. Earnings saw the frightened looks on all their faces; this was utter suicide.

Clements looked around the tank wreck to the other houses, "MEN! FALL BACK! FOLLOW ME!" the weapon fire slowly stopped and left only the German guns ripping bullets into the street. All the soldiers were now in the street watching Captain Clements, everyone could see his shock and terror as sweat scraped down his face. "What is it Captain?" one soldier asked, "We're still under attack, we need to act fast!" Clements gave a sigh of defeat, "We're pulling back to the 2nd battalion, get ready to make haste." Groans of disbelief sprung up through the men, yet there was no time to argue, the Germans were getting more accurate with their shots. Bullets pinged off the floor next to the men.

Clements began a light pace and the others followed; yet their jog was twisted into a confused sprint as a tank shell tore into the buildings to their left sprinkling them with chunks of building and shards of brickwork. "RUN FOR IT!" hollered Earnings, and they galloped off down the road. Bullets zipped and cut the air around the retreating men, several stumbling from a stray shot and dying right there in the street. The fluttering soldiers were intent to make it out the city alive, despite the odds.

Baker collapsed to the floor and was run over by the other men; he had been shot in the leg and was bleeding profusely, blood collecting around his fallen body. Earnings saw his friend fall and ran back through the stampeding soldiers. He picked up Baker from the floor and looked at his wound, "Jesus, Baker, why am I always coming back to rescue your arse?" Baker smirked, "'Cos you're so good at it." Earnings had met Baker a few times before in the past and had gradually gotten to know him. He was one of Earnings' long-lost friends from his first battalion in Normandy, Earnings was thankful to have a friendly face in his new battalion. The bullets came in heavy force now, slicing by Earnings. No one even noticed he was gone.

Earnings took one look back to the disappearing men and gave a terminal sigh; he had made his last mistake. Baker looked hopefully at his friend, who in turn was in utter depression. "Sorry mate," whimpered Earnings who drew his pistol, "I can't let you suffer at the hands of these fuckers" Baker's face was a picture of betrayal, yet he knew it was for the best intentions, Earnings put the gun to his friends face and pulled the trigger. The bullet blew in Baker's face in a torrent of bone, blood and brains. Some of it lapped up onto Earnings' front and face, his tears stained red from his friends blood. He was alone in the road, a solitary figure against an amassing German division. Earnings loaded his rifle and darted to the roadside for cover, if he was going to die, it would be in a blaze of fire, in dignity, as a hero. He noticed a building by the roadside that gave definite cover from the oncoming Germans. As he ran, two Germans with machineguns had gotten him into range and opened fire. The bullets spat into his side and Earnings fell into a crumpled heap by the door he was headed for. He pulled himself upright and began sliding away into the house; he could just reach the wooden door of the building. He hauled his broken body ever closer to the doorway; fingers gripping the edge of the splintery wooden door, he was almost there. The two Germans kept up their bursts of fire and made their advance. Their bursts of bullets ensnared Earnings; he was riddled with machinegun fire, each one beating a bloody ditch into his flesh. The firing stopped; Earnings let out a helpless whine, and was silent, mere inches from the doorway.


	2. A Welcome Legend

A fallen tree slept silently a far distance from the field, near the remains of the afternoon's escapades. The grass shimmered and waved in the noontime air, complete with the smell of excitement and movement. The miles of fields and trees were a beautiful sight to behold in the afternoon hues; trodden paths winding and weaving through the hulks of wreckage and equipment. Just outside the city of Arnhem lay the drop points of the British 1st Airborne; Operation Market Garden was underway.

By the open carriages of the Horsa gliders sat the lonely person of a tired soldier. His hair had now grown back to its original length since it's shortening at the beginning of the conflict. His black wavy locks resembled the nocturnal tide, flowing in overlapping curls. His face was adorned with paint that concealed his true features in a blend of browns and greens. Beside him lay his weapon and a red British beret. Every now and then he would look to his hands, the grime and dirt in every crease in his fingers, grit sunk beneath his nails with purpose. He rested against the side of the glider and looked forlorn.

From beside the beaten paths a soldier bumbled his way over to the resting figure and tried to haul his attention from the floor.

"Captain McIntyre!"

McIntyre lifted his head from the earth and addressed the soldier. "What is it Sergeant Matthews?"

"The next wave of gliders are coming in. We need to secure the landing zone."

McIntyre manoeuvred off the glider and picked up his hat and gun. He followed Sergeant Matthews where to the rest of the squad were stood. McIntyre looked back over his shoulder to see the incoming gliders.

The gliders started off as gently descending specks that drifted on down through the atmosphere. As they approached, the sky began to darken and the sound of the air being sliced became more apparent. The first few gliders thudded into the floor, tearing more alleys out of the lawn, then gradually slowed down until they ceased to move at all.

Soldiers began pouring from the gliders, filling the fields with a mass of bodies that wiggled their way to the others that stood in wait. McIntyre's eyes sifted through the horde of men, if they were going to advance on Arnhem, they would need the tactical advice of a superior officer. Not long after he began searching, the Lieutenant Colonel made himself known.

He strode around the empty gliders with such carefree abandon; it was as if there was no war at all. He examined the surrounding foliage and gave a sigh of helplessness, the beauty of this place, held in a noose by the German armed forces. He tipped his beret and rested his Sten on his shoulder, twirling his moustache cockily as he approached McIntyre.

"Good morning chaps," he began politely, "bloody fine weather today don't you think?" McIntyre gaped his mouth in an attempt to respond, but was interrupted by the Colonel, "Sorry to keep you lads waiting for so long, the pilots had a spot of bother with the weather back in Blighty, hope you don't mind." McIntyre quickly stepped into the conversation before the Colonel could ramble on, "Sir, with the deepest respects, there is important business to attend to." The colonel shook himself out of his waffling banter and began to listen to what McIntyre had to say.

"Sir, the main attack force has split into three main battalions, each taking a different route through Arnhem," he directed the Colonel to an open map of the area that laid limply on the field. "1st battalion made an attempt to break in through Oosterbeek," McIntyre pointed to one of the crude red lines from the marked landing zone to Arnhem, "2nd battalion headed straight for the bridge, whilst the 3rd battalion followed on and got into the outskirts of Arnhem." The Colonel caressed his chin; this was a dire strategy at taking over the city.

McIntyre looked hopefully at him, "Any ideas, sir?" The Colonel stood and thought for a while, then announced his plan to McIntyre. "Well, we should try to link up with these battalions at once, that's obvious. I shall lead a battalion to relieve the men on the bridge, while you take some of the South Staffords to help out the other stranded lads." McIntyre took a double take at the Colonel, "What?" The Colonel beamed a transcendent smile at McIntyre, "Yes dear lad, obviously you have the practicality to understand the situation. I can trust you to lead one of the groups of the South Staffords into combat, can't I?" McIntyre felt uneasy, he had never been given command of so many people before, yet he wasn't going to let his discomfort be known to the Colonel.

Off behind them stood McIntyre's original squad with Sergeant Matthews trying to listen in on McIntyre's conversation with the Lieutenant Colonel, he leaned in slightly and cupped his ear. "What are you doing Matthews?" asked Private Timms, scorn lifting his voice into Matthews' ears. Matthews stumbled over himself and looked back to Timms, who stood up and glared down to him.

Timms was an average looking man, yet something about him made everyone who saw him take a second look. There was something about Timms that made most of the soldiers wary, his gaze transfixed people like a viper catching its prey, by luring and cooing to them softly into the darkness. One eye was brown, and the other a cold steel blue that flickered with demonic light when the sun caught it.

Matthews brushed himself down and leered at Timms, "Yes, what is it?" he enquired. Timms changed his face to a polite and well-meaning expression, "I was just curious as to why you keep giving the Captain those stares. He's just a Captain after all, it's not like he's done much is it, bar kill a few krauts." Matthews was exasperated that Timms didn't know what McIntyre had done. "Do you have any idea what the Captain has done?" Timms sighed, Matthews continued, "He was in Renneville!" Before Timms could make a witty response, his face flopped in shock, "You can't be serious!" he exclaimed. Matthews paced around Timms for a few seconds, and then confirmed his statement. "I thought that was just propaganda, to keep morale up." Matthews planted a smug grin on his face and let it grow. "What happened? Did he tell you?" asked Timms, now fully in the grip of Matthews' story. "Well, the Captain was the one that is referred in the story as, "The Sergeant", I overheard it when we were assembled for the invasion of Holland." Timms couldn't believe it, "You mean, he had the Panzerschreck, and the officer threatened him, and the final stand in the church. HE did all that?" he pointed to McIntyre still in utter disbelief. Matthews nodded; the growing smile blossomed in a flower of achievement that shone straight through Timms. "Crikey" was all he said.

The Colonel checked his Sten and cleared his throat, "Well then," he began, "time to get this over with. Captain, I bid you good luck with the mission." McIntyre shook the Colonel's hand, "And I you, sir" he replied. The Lieutenant Colonel assembled his troops and headed off down the meadows, McIntyre was stood with the final soldiers in front of him. "All right then," he said, "Men, your fellow brothers in arms are currently being assaulted by the German armed forces. No way are we going to let our lads die by their grubby claws. Now let's go save them." The men cheered and marched after McIntyre as he followed the road to Arnhem, and glory.


	3. Borderline Victory

Across the other side of the town, things were of a bitter matter. A still mist clung to the fabric of the city, sinking its claws into the soft and weakened structure of Arnhem. It obscured the clearest image to a grey blur and spat at the attempts to break through it with light.

The tank wailed in pain as it bubbled and burst in a fiery blast; they had all had been defeated. The men whooped with triumph, they thought it couldn't be done, but it had. The German Panzer division had fallen to the British. Captain Fender wiped his face down, it had been a gruelling battle, many men lost, but the end result was worth it.

All across the bridge at Arnhem were the corpses of many men, and the beastly statues of burnt-out tanks. The flames from the empty vehicles waved and flickered weakly in the wind. The bodies slumped motionless and eerily over one another, in an attempt to shield each other from the horrors of the battle. They had not been so fortunate. Blood poured down the roads and in every crevice possible. The sick and torturous vision made Captain Fender wince. He sat by one of the charcoaled tanks and took a while to settle himself.

Captain Fender was big for a man his age. He towered over most of the new recruits and made a name for himself among the veterans. His hair was golden ginger like that you would find bristling on a wild fox, which aptly applied for his beard which shrouded the lower part of his face.

He squinted down the bridge and the bloody destruction that laid over it like a macabre dinner cloth. He was reluctant to get up, the sight weakening his legs. Over his right shoulder propped the 6-pounder guns. These huge machines rested their smoking snouts on either side of the bridge, relaxing their aching frames. They had punched gaping holes into the tank onslaught that sat drooling in the centre of the road, a shadow of its former formidability.

"Ease up men," he told the gun crews, "Pack your stuff and head back to the base, we've done enough damage here." And nor a truer word was said, the utter devastation caused by the crack anti-tank weaponry seemed slightly excessive in Captain Fender's terms.

He twirled a weathered and fairly battered 2p coin between his grubby fingers and skilfully slipped it back into the top pocket of his uniform. "Still keeping that lucky penny, eh Captain?" came a voice from the houses towards Fender. He stood up and straightened his jacket, "Shut up Sergeant and get back inside" he ordered, feeling quite embarrassed being seen with his "lucky penny".

As Captain Fender waddled painfully back to the housing, a shrill, piercing whistle scratched down through the atmosphere. It ignited the road beside him, spewing earth and metal into the air. His gaze darted around the area; they were being shelled. The whistling became a choir of terrifying proportions; a cacophony of descending shrieks that flared on contact with the floor. Fender raced into the house yelling before him, "Artillery fire! Find cover fast!" dirt smudging his view with a splash of pavement.

He wheeled his way into the house and skidded into another soldier. There were about eleven soldiers in the building each ripe with a fear that budded from their faces. "Men," started Fender, "We've got to pull back to the buildings deeper inside Arnhem." A panicked yelp from the back of the room said, "But the fucking Gerries are in there! We'll be killed for sure!" Fender pushed his way to the voices owner through the crowd of men and picked him up with the swift movement of his left forearm. "Listen Private, I know we're in a fix, but I don't seriously give a fuck as to what the long term effects could be. It's either die now, or die later!" He removed his arm and let the soldier drop back down to the floor. He addressed them all, "Take as much gear as you can manage and head back a few streets, tell the others to do the same."

From behind the cascading explosions of the artillery fire, came a feeble plea for help. Fender looked back out the door to the battlefield to see Private Hepple cowering in fright beneath the body of a German tank. "For fucks' sake!" hollered Fender, "Why in the hell is Hepple still out there!" As the soldiers bustled past him, Fender knew the promise he made back in England: he would never leave a man behind. He looked back to the remaining soldiers in the house, "Someone needs to go out there and save Private Hepple." From the side came a response, "I'll do it Captain. You go on with the other soldiers, I'll catch up." Fender smiled and scratched the back of his head, "Thanks Sergeant, you know you're going to get promoted for this." The soldier chuckled, "Well, it's nothing I haven't done before." He handed his rifle to one of the exiting soldiers and stood by the door.

A bomb crashed into the roof and shook the ceiling, dust belched from the corners of the room, accompanied by the occasional spittle of wood. The Sergeant held onto the sides of the doorframe and ran into the road. The downpour of mortar and artillery fire churned the road into craters and mud, yet the soldier kept running through the hellish rain of explosions and flames. He slid beneath the tank's form and grabbed a vice like grip on Private Hepple. "Hepple, where's your rifle?" he asked. Hepple's hands worryingly fingered under the body of the tank, "I…I don't know…I-I-I think I must've dropped it before I got here." The Sergeant held onto Hepple's uniform and put his gaze in a determined clutch; "Hepple, can you walk?" desperation began to take its toll on the Sergeant, his voice wavering through the sirens of shells that fell like an autumn torrent onto their position. Hepple shook his head in dismay.

The Sergeant sighed and hauled Private Hepple onto his back; "We'll get you out of here in no time, Private" Through the layer of smoke and dirt that was continuously coughed into the air, the Sergeant could make out the disappearing figures of Captain Fender and his squad. "Shite," grumbled the Sergeant; the distance to cross was insane. The shells kept blistering open the floor, tearing it apart one crater at a time. He tapped Private Hepple on the head and said, "Don't hate me for this." Hepple looked baffled; what was he doing? The Sergeant squirmed from under the tank and began the gauntlet across the open road.

He ran as fast as Private Hepple would allow him to, the shaking young man teetering him off balance. The shells were still falling all around him, his path through as erratic as their descent. His feet twisted and span on the spot to navigate the explosions. Dirt and pavement were launched from all around. As he ran, his feet slipped over one another in anticipation and he collapsed into the beaten floor. Helpless, he couldn't get up.

He lay on the floor for a while. The Sergeant couldn't believe his luck; the shells had stopped. He laughed at his fortune and picked himself up. Private Hepple still held on tightly to his back, fingers almost piercing the Sergeant's skin. The Sergeant finished the distance to the new frontline. Outside one of the doors stood Captain Fender, a huge friendly grin on his face that seemed quite out of place amongst the blood and suffering. "I don't believe it," he exclaimed, " I thought you lads were done for. You are the luckiest git in the world, you know that?" The Sergeant let Private Hepple down by the door and sat himself beside the frightened little man; the oak support of the door re-aligning his back. "Thanks Captain," replied the Sergeant, "I was almost sure that I was going to die out there." Captain Fender laughed a hearty laugh that roared through the streets of Arnhem, "Don't worry lad, if you died, I'd be the first to hear about it" The Sergeant chuckled softly to himself at his Captain's idea. He rolled his helmet off his head and wound his hand through his hair. His face was painted in obscure splashes of dirt, mud, and all sorts of grime. His hair was a fine brown-blonde that echoed that of the summer harvest, yet clumps were tagged together by kernels of mud and dirt. How they managed to get under his helmet, he hadn't a clue.

Captain Fender trotted nobly into the house, his men had performed gallantly today. As he did, he led the partly conscious Private Hepple to the medical supplies. From within the house, the Captain called out, "Rest easy Williams, you've done us a world of good." Sergeant Edward Williams smiled softly to himself and did what he never could in France; he fell sound asleep. Safe in the company of his brothers, he slept heavily, dreaming of the woman he left behind, and the friend who was busy advancing through the other side of the city to find him.


	4. Broken Roads

Splintered and divided, the houses lay; creaking and moaning in the autumn sun. Their frames too weak to support themselves, and no one could criticise. The houses were beaten and blown apart, aerial bombardments had twisted the landscape of the city into a blurred swirl of masonry and bricks. Somewhere in this tangled web of ruins were the remains of two British battalions that had set out to liberate the decimated wasteland of Arnhem.

Private Stubley traipsed at the back of the section, painfully lugging his Bren Gun. He wasn't actually any good with it either; just because he couldn't shoot straight, he was given the weapon that needed the least accuracy. He was a frightfully young man, just turned eighteen as he was sent into the army; he seemed weak and out of place in comparison to the other, more seasoned soldiers. No one back home would believe he was actually marching through Holland at this precise moment in time, and neither could he.

The sun rested over the tops of the fallen houses and buildings and gently rocked back and forth over the horizon, lulling itself into a calm relaxation. Captain McIntyre slinked along the arch of one of the ruins, his back pressed firmly against the crumbed wall. Just in front of him, leading the section was Lieutenant Telford, his rifle clutched in dire embrace to his chest. He was crouched low onto the corner of the building, every now and then twisting his head to the side to check the main road for German activity.

Captain McIntyre stopped just next to the Lieutenant and ordered the rest of the men to take a rest. They had marched non-stop from the drop point to find the remains of the first and third battalions. Sergeant Matthews gave a sigh of exhaustion and rested his Sten on the buildings' side, every fragment of his body ached in shattering pain. Private Timms still stood aloft, rifle in ready position. He glanced down to Matthews, who gave a huff and sat on the rubble that had dusted the city. Timms took a minute to smirk at his Sergeant's inability to withstand the threshold. Matthews grumbled despondently at Timms' lack of respect for his superiors.

Private Stubley finally dragged his blistered form to the rest of the men, who now stood around the corner of the fractured building. He collapsed into himself and began panting and struggling for breath, Matthews looked at him in disgrace, "Captain," he asked McIntyre, "Why do we have to drag this failing weed with us everywhere?" McIntyre pushed himself off the wall and looked to the wheezing Stubley, "Private, take five minutes to catch your breath, if you need a hand to carry that Bren gun, just ask." He smiled friendlily at Stubley who tried to repay the complement through his tired expression, but was too vague to make a difference.

"Why did you do that?" asked Matthews, rather disgruntled at McIntyre. McIntyre removed his helmet; the dimming sun glimmered through his fatally dark hair, which now swayed majestically into the wind. He stared Matthews in the face, "It's our duty as soldiers to treat each other with respect. We needn't haze each other. That's the Germans job," Privates Timms and Stubley squeezed a faint giggle at the Captains words, "We were all as fresh out of training as Private Stubley at one point." Private Stubley raised his head and said to Captain McIntyre, "I can't really imagine you being a Private, sir. It doesn't seem right." McIntyre smiled at Private Stubley's exclamation, "You know Private, I've been on every major assault on the western front in this war: Dunkirk, El Alamein, Sicily, Normandy, and here in Holland. That has been the first time anyone has ever thought about me as a Private. Even when I was just starting out on the bloody desert fields of Africa, the other soldiers thought I was a Sergeant or something." He paused, as the scorching memories of his tour in Africa came creeping back to the front of his mind. "They treat me so kindly, with such comradeship and respect, and that's what got me through. The Germans were relentless and despicable, if not for my fellow soldiers I wouldn't have made it back." He stood over Sergeant Matthews, staring almost into his inner soul; his figure blotting out the sky from Matthews' view, "We are brothers, we don't need to fight ourselves."

While McIntyre gave his speech, Lieutenant Telford had scouted to check the main road ahead. The building they had stopped by sat just by the side of the main road that wrapped itself through the intricate buildings and crumbled ruins. It was like the spine of some colossal snake that once roamed the lands, and had been honoured by using it's remains as a means of transport and connection. Private Timms peered around the Captain and asked, "Sir, where did the Lieutenant go?" McIntyre fleeted a look behind his shoulder and replied, "Off scouting ahead. Don't worry, he'll be back soon."

A few minutes passed, when all of a sudden the rolling crack of rifle fire was heard erupting from down the street followed by the cryptic slander of German shouting. The shots grew closer, and Lieutenant Telford fell around the corner, gripping his leg. "S-S-S-Sir," he stammered to McIntyre, "German patrol headed this way." McIntyre and the others picked up their arms, "Where, Telford?" He pointed down the main road, "Eight of the bastards, four riflemen, two machine gunners and a Panzerschreck pair." McIntyre looked to Telford's leg, blood oozed between his fingers and collected in the folds of his trouser leg. "Shit. Matthews, stay with him. Timms, Stubley, go to that building opposite, hold fire till you get an open shot." The soldiers agreed and ran for cover. Timms and Stubley fled into the hollow house they had been told to and covered themselves with the rubble that lay around. Stubley opened the tripod for his Bren gun and looked down the iron sights, Timms did the same with his rifle, resting his arm on bended knee. Over the road, McIntyre and Matthews had dragged Lieutenant Telford into the empty house they had been resting on before, or the two-and-a-half walls that remained of the house. "Load your Sten, Matthews," ordered McIntyre, "It's not going to be pretty…"

The house seemed to have an organic feel to it, as the walls rotted and decayed after their untimely beating from the German air force. Matthews had propped Telford against a wall, the shards of building that lay on the floor sank up into Telford's wound and he hissed at its sting. Matthews crouched next to McIntyre, who readied his Sten gun in wait, finger inching ever closer to the trigger.

Private Stubley beaded his aim down the barrel of his gun as they approached. Sweat began to carve a perspired path down his forehead. However, as the Germans approached, one plucky soldier noticed something. From within one of the houses they were advancing on, a small, shiny light had been flickering like a beacon: an alarm. He shouted to his comrades, "It's a trap!" and pulled them back from the line of fire. The suns rays had sparkled off the tip of Stubley's iron sights, alerting the Germans. He panicked, "Sir! They've spotted me!" His voice trembled and quaked with every letter. McIntyre's voice came faintly from the opposite side of the road, "Put some suppressing fire on them Stubley! You too Timms!" Timms barked back to McIntyre, "Sir, yes sir!" and began firing. Stubley looked back down his iron sights and pulled the pin of his Bren gun. The beastly weapon thundered in his hands and propelled rounds down the road, blasting gaping holes into the slabs of brick that lined it.

One German decided to make a run just as Stubley opened fire, he heard the roar of the Bren gun and began to run back. A stray bullet shot into his ankle, bursting it open in a bubble of blood. Ligaments and tendons frayed and writhed open as the scarlet fluid sprayed over the road. He wailed in pain and pulled himself onto the pavement.

McIntyre cursed himself, he had gotten them into a tricky position, and he knew it. He looked at the wounded Telford and grumbled, "Should've went myself." He then grabbed Matthews and pulled him upstairs, "Come on lad, we've got a job to do. Telford, keep a hand on your rifle and shoot anything that doesn't speak English, okay?" Telford nodded sluggishly and picked up his rifle. Upstairs was in equal ruin as downstairs, with the front side facing the road completely missing in a pile of rubble beneath it. McIntyre signalled to Matthews, "Throw a grenade down there and flush them out!" Matthews flung one of his grenades down to the roadside and covered his head. The bomb churned out dirt, mortar, and glass, along with the coughing Germans, who now seeked more shelter. From up high, Matthews and McIntyre let loose a volley of bullets from their Stens down onto the Germans, blood popping in ruby flowers over their bodies. Suddenly there was a clink from McIntyre's Sten and the pin fell off. He ducked for cover and slammed his fist onto the side of his weapon, but to no avail: his gun was broken. Matthews flinched as the final German flung a rifle slug his way. "Bloody hell sir!" he exclaimed, "This last ones fucking smart, he doesn't want to give up for anything!" McIntyre couldn't hear him; he was too busy beating the life back into his gun.

The last German was in heavy cover, hiding on the other side of the street inside one of the more sturdier houses. He stuck his rifle over the edge of the window he was hiding under and sprang off a round every now and then.

Private Stubley turned to Timms, "We'll never hit him, he's too far in cover."

McIntyre tossed his weapon away and looked down to the final German. Matthews slumped down beside the Captain and sighed. "Looks like we're stuck here, eh Captain?" As if telling him to shut up, a deafening shot was heard from within the abode of the final German. His body was slumped out over the window and thudded limply onto the glass stained floor. Matthews raised his weapon, "Don't shoot!" protested McIntyre and pushed down Matthews' gun, "That was an Enfield .303, it's the perimeter!" McIntyre stood up from his position and called down to the house, "British 1st Airborne! Hold you fire!" like some miraculous dream, out strolled three British soldiers.

McIntyre jogged down the stairs to meet them, as did Timms and Stubley from their hiding spot, Matthews collected Telford from the floor and carried him to where the men had congregated. The first man to exit the house tipped his helmet, revealing a bolt of blonde hair, and said, "Evening chaps, what took you?" McIntyre scratched his forehead and replied, "Well, it take some time to navigate these streets, and the fact we all split up to search for you quicker mightn't have helped as much…" The soldier batted his hand in a dismissive gesture, "Don't fret mate, just get yourself inside and we'll look after you. You might consider getting yourself a gun, not much point in fighting without a weapon." McIntyre looked sheepishly around and then back to the soldier, "It got broken," he said, "and I was rather quite fond of that Sten gun." The soldier laughed aloud, "Cheer up, I've got something better than a poxy Sten. Follow me." McIntyre and his squad followed the soldiers into the besieged house and into the perimeter of Oosterbeek.


	5. The Last Remaining Light

As the evening fell into an ocean of darkness with hordes of twinkling mariners submerging and bobbing in the vibrant seas of the sky, the towns below basked in their own wounded arms. The battered and bruised branches of the Dutch cities lulled themselves back to a gentle slumber as the crackling of guns began to open up again. The sun had all but disappeared into the edges of the horizon, yet both sides could easily mark out their opponents. The flares from the rifles and machineguns brilliantly lit the streets up with the random flickering of bullets being launched in all manners of directions. Scampering along the cobbled roads and paths to meet their targets and tear them apart.

Williams woke up to a different surrounding, and shuddered in disbelief at his new location. Inside the building were several wounded men, clutching their wounds as blood leaked in collected pools of the men's fluid. The walls were drab and stained with things that Williams didn't want to have noticed. He hauled himself up using the wall as a balance; legs wobbling like balsa wood stilts. He yawned and stretched his back, he felt too at home amongst these dying men. He then noticed the distant whizzing of what sounded like bullets; he crept toward the door to the street to take a better listen, when Private Hepple landed into him.

Hepple got up and re-aligned his helmet; he brushed himself down and wiped his nose, he looked very shocked and in the deepest worry. "Williams," he panted, "The Gerries are attacking!" Williams shook himself fully awake and confidently scrabbled around his side for his rifle. His hands were left unappreciated and empty, where was his rifle? Williams looked around; his weapon had gone. "Hepple?" he asked, "Where's my rifle?" Hepple's eyes dropped sheepishly down to the floor and began to graze the pastures of the bloody surface. Eventually he raised his head and replied, "I gave it to McAffrey" Williams took an exasperated sigh and paced around the room, but before he could say what he felt, Hepple jumped in, "They had just started to attack. There wasn't anything else to do, so I gave him your rifle." Williams groaned and put his hand to his face, "It's not your fault Hepple; you're not to blame. No one is."

Hepple still crouched by the doorframe and felt guilty for giving away Williams' rifle. Suddenly a bullet spat through the wooden beam of the doorframe and sent chips of wood and dust spraying everywhere. Hepple flinched at the nearby shot and scurried further indoors. Williams pulled Hepple away from the door, "Where's McAffrey now?" Hepple pointed out the door, "Down the road and along a bit, the building with the red flag on it." Williams slinked a look outside to the building, it was under heavy fire, muzzle flares randomly crackling from windows and gaps in the buildings structure. Williams returned to Hepple and unfastened his side arm's holster, the beaten, leather-bound case felt rough against his hands, and he elegantly pulled the revolver from its nest. He flicked open the catch and checked the ammunition for it. Williams then made his way back to the far end of the room and to the back door that lead onto the alleyways. Hepple tumbled after him, asking, "What are you doing Williams?" without needing to turn his head he replied, "I'm getting my gun back."

The alleyways were dim and bleak in the near nighttime; the ability to negotiate the difference between friend and foe was almost gone. It was sheer luck that they happened to be on opposite sides of the street. Williams silently manoeuvred through the narrow alley, revolver gripped tightly in his hand. His free hand began to paw its way along the walls, negotiating its way through the bleak light. Hepple bumbled behind him, not knowing what to do exactly.

From the edge of the house, Williams could see the British barricade; the entire length of the road had been sealed off with all manners of furniture, shrapnel, masonry and such. The barricade was also wound up with barbed wire that had been found in a nearby pillbox guarding the bridge. All down the makeshift fortification were soldiers firing against the German hordes. The flash of gunfire lit up the street better than any lamp actually still in operation in the area. The twinkling, blaring barrage of bullets kept up against the enemy. Williams crawled behind it, desperately trying to keep covered whilst making sense of what was going on.

In the centre of the barricade was Staff Sergeant Bill Fitzgerald. He gripped his weapon and began firing sporadically down the street; he also was barking orders to the poor soldier on the radio, "TRY TO GET US SOME FUCKING SUPPORT!" The little soldier ferociously tried to use the radio, but was left high and dry as no signal was picked up. "Sir, I can't get a signal, looks like we're alone." Fitzgerald bashed his fist onto the floor, "Bastards!" he cursed. Just then, he caught the shape of Williams going by, "Sergeant!" he bellowed over the roar of gunfire, "Come here!" Williams hauled himself over to the officer, "What the hell is going on?" asked Williams as the bullets soared like vicious rain over their heads. Fitzgerald leaned in so Williams could hear him better, "The Krauts sprang a surprise attack on us. I've had to pull all the active soldiers out of the more frontal houses back to the barricade to hold them off." He let out a burst from his Sten and continued speaking, "Captain Fender tried to send a group of lads to grenade the fuckers from that post office, but it seems he got caught and had to take refuge in there for a while." He let out another flare of bullets, and then reloaded his weapon with determined intent. Williams knew his rifle was in that post office; he just had to reach it. Somehow.

Just then, Fitzgerald noticed that Williams only held his service revolver. The dull tin metal of the gun standing out from the vast array of wooden shapes of the rifles. "Williams," he asked, "Where's your rifle?" Williams shuffled to the soldier and replied, "Hepple here gave it to McAffrey when I was taking a rest in the medical centre." The Staff Sergeant took a brief glance at Hepple, who had readily begun to join in the defence of the barricade.

Fitzgerald sighed and sat down, his back resting up against the barricade, bullets skidding by his head. "You can't go on without a gun, Williams." He took a moment to breathe in and look into the far distance of Arnhem Bridge. The last remaining light dribbled over the heavy metal structure and the officer turned back to the battle.

"Sir!" a voice cried from the right flank, "Sir! Ingram is down, they got him! We're losing fire superiority!" Fitzgerald tapped his helmet and looked to Williams as if he knew what he was thinking. "Well go on then," he insisted, "Take up Ingram's position on the right flank…NOW!" Williams apologised for his slow reaction and darted down the line to where Lieutenant Ingram lay dead.

His body was slumped unaided over the barricade, blood dripping from his mouth and swirling down into the street's gutter, forming a sickly hybrid of sewage and crimson. Next to the body, Williams noticed a Bren gun; it had Ingram's name etched onto it with a penknife, a penknife that was clearly visible from one of his uniform's pouch. Williams set up the Bren gun and strained his eyes down the sight; the German silhouettes were forming up and moving down in what seemed like a last attempt to take the barricade. Williams slapped a fresh magazine into the Bren gun and armed it. The Germans where getting closer now, the new night covering their advance. Williams followed the group with his sights. The screams of bloody determination from down the line grew as a choir of rage and all of the men began emptying every last round they had into their foes. Williams saw his chance and opened fire, the gun booming out bullets that found their targets; but they still came. The two forces bellowing with all their might, casings dropping like dead, bronzed flies.

Williams swivelled his gun around and came face to face with one of the charging Germans, his rifle held high, bayonet attached. Williams fell back from his gun and lay paralysed as his attacker lunged, face broken with murderous rage.


	6. A Shift In Opportunity

The horizon sank as the sun began to droop wearily over it, spreading a spectrum of azure shades into the darkest corners of the sky. The night crawled and crept its way back across the astral fields and clawed fiendishly at the retreating sun. It was getting late over the plains of Holland, the evening calm invading every square inch of the cities that lay beneath. In particular, one of the interconnected towns garrisoned the surviving men of the 1st and 3rd British Battalions, who recently had been receiving new recruits every few minutes.

Captain McIntyre watched the sun disappear over the horizon, popping behind the silhouettes of houses. The streetlights and porch lights buzzed on with a faint hum that resembled a swarm of bees collecting nectar for the summer harvest. If only life were that simple. The illuminating bulbs drenched the streets in pools of light that shone off the fresh paving stones. He shielded his eyes from the surprise of the bright blast, then let his eyes adjust as his fellow soldier showed him around the perimeter.

"We've had soldiers from the South Staffords popping in every ten minutes from all directions, we were about to wonder what the hell was going on when you lads showed up." The soldier led McIntyre through the winding narrow streets and alleys; on every corner and doorway sat the tired shapes of soldiers, weary and despondent in their predicament. Each clung onto their gun like a lifeline and a hope to get them through till the foreseeable end.

The soldier stopped in the street and addressed McIntyre, "Before I go on, name's Captain Clements," he outstretched a hand in an attempt to shake McIntyre's. McIntyre repaid the gesture replying, "I'm Captain McIntyre. Nice to meet you Captain." Clements removed his hand from McIntyre's and looked inquisitively at him, "Captain Jim McIntyre?" he asked. McIntyre looked about and said, "Yes? Do you know me?" Clements folded his arms and sighed, "Well, bugger me. I heard about you in Renneville, but I thought…"

"…It was just propaganda" finished McIntyre, looking tired of hearing people toss that statement around, "Well it's not, I survived that place through everything it threw at us, now if you don't mind Captain we have more pressing matters at hand."

Clements jumped around McIntyre and stopped him once more, "Actually, I have a special request to ask of you." McIntyre dropped his head and sighed, "Is it important?" Clements seemed eager at this, his hands itching all around in anticipation, "Well, I just need you Captain. Your men are free to join the rest of the South Staffords on the more southern side of the perimeter. Broderick, come here!" Private Broderick scrambled out from his resting spot and stood in attention to the Captain. Clements leaned against the wall of the street, this emphasised the thin wiriness of the space actually provided by the city. Clements asked Broderick, "Take these men to the South Staffords section, would you Broderick?" the soldier saluted his officer and led all but McIntyre along the wispy roads into the distance.

Clements coaxed McIntyre to follow him to what appeared to be half of a bank. Two of the walls had fallen in such a way that they now supported each other up, yet barely. The remaining parts of the structure groaned and sighed with stress and pain with their very fabric falling apart in the night time breeze. Luckily, the walls had the sturdy support of supply crates that lay rigid against the soft walls. The temporary lights hummed shadows up against these walls that seemed arcane to the passer-by. Most of the furniture remained upright and Clements grabbed himself a chair, McIntyre stood standing.

He swivelled the chair around till he faced McIntyre again, "Look, Captain, we've been fighting these Germans off for days, and I have to pull my men out of the area." McIntyre contorted his face in puzzlement, "Why pull out? These Germans won't be able to put out for much longer, and besides we need to reach…" Clements but in, he knew what the Captain meant, but had to shatter his ideas, "They've got tanks, Captain." McIntyre stopped still for a minute as he calculated the risks of street fighting with tanks.

"An entire divisions worth. They moved in whilst my sections made a path for Arnhem. We pulled out this far and they lost our scent. I'm not letting my men be killed with such ease as they did when we first reached the outskirts of the town." Clements placed his fingers against its counter-part on the opposite hand and strummed them together. After a screeching moment of silence, Clements continued, "We got word from the lads at HQ that they want to send an 'experienced soldier' to sneak past the German lines and retrieve some information from a Dutch resistance member on the movement of these tanks." Clements' gaze stayed on McIntyre for five more minutes and neither of them said a word as the gravity of the task sank into McIntyre. Clements handed McIntyre a map, saying, "This map shows the location of our insider with the necessary information and where we intend to move the perimeter to. Take care of it"

Clements shuffled over to the pile of crates and prised one of them open, "Like I said earlier, you're going to need a gun, and this happens to be the last one we have going spare." His hands fished inside the wooden box, rummaging through the straw packaging and finally finding its prize. McIntyre tipped his head in puzzlement at what Clements had in store. From the crate, Clements produced a fairly long rifle-shaped weapon. A dull black metal barrel extended past the wooden stock, and slung underneath the barrel clung a pump-action. Clements held the pump-action in one hand and loaded the shotgun. He handed the weapon to the seated McIntyre as well as a handful of shells, "You'll need them, and maybe some more."

Gradually through the course of the conversation between the two men, the faint sound of pattering feet made their debut onto the scene accompanied by another, it was Broderick and Timms. Clements pulled himself up away from McIntyre and picked up his Sten from beside his chair. "What's going on, lads?"

Broderick looked to his Captain, then back to where he and Timms had just came. "Sir, a group of SS troopers snuck through the lines, they've got themselves some cover inside a house. A couple of the lads managed to take three down, but there's still seven lurking there." Clements took a murmuring breath and stood downhearted in front of his fellow soldiers. McIntyre finished filling his pouches with ammunition and approached Broderick, "Where exactly are these Stormtroopers?" Broderick looked to McIntyre hesitantly, "Near the South Staffords' Section."

McIntyre gripped his shotgun tighter and was about to ask another question when Timms finally spoke up, "They've got a sharpshooter, taking pot-shots at anyone willing to come close. I don't think we should take any unnecessary risks, sir." Clements reclaimed the attention of the soldiers, "There's no such thing as an unnecessary risk, just bad choices. Now, lead the way, we'll sort this out when we get there. In the meantime, Broderick, go round telling all the soldiers to start pulling out now. We can't take more Germans breaking in." The private saluted his officer and ran off, Timms stayed with the two Captains and led them on through the city streets.

As they moved through the narrow alleys and paths of Oosterbeek, all the soldiers they passed had already packed their trappings and had made a start on their pull back. The rubble lined the streets like fallen rain, collecting puddles in predominant patches on the floor. As the soldiers left, they grabbed the lamps, blacking out the streets with sinister mystery as to what lay ahead. Finally, they reached the combat zone, the crackling of gunfire electrifying the air with danger and death.

The house was the most intact on the street, a faded blue tint covering the outer walls, yet with jagged, shattered windows. From one of the tallest windows came a flare and the solitary spitting sound of rifle-fire. Resting by the corner of the house they approached on was Matthews, he clutched his hand in pain, blood bubbled between his fingers.

"Thank God you're here Captain," he exclaimed, "that fucking sniper's been pinning us down like total fucking idiots." Around Matthews were several other soldiers, propped against the wall was Lieutenant Telford with his wounded leg still bleeding profusely, and next to him Private Stubley, still holding onto his Bren gun while overlooking the weary Telford. Clements spied Matthews' hand and asked, "What happened to your hand?" Matthews looked at his crimson appendage and sighed, "Oh yeah, that thing. Well, I stepped out around the corner, not expecting much, when that fucker up there took a bloody shot and hit me. It went right through my fucking hand, it did" He raised his hand to reveal the fleshy gap that shone through. McIntyre tried to get a better look, when the sniper sent fire and made McIntyre flinch behind the wall again.

"We tried to grenade them out, but they keep throwing them back out the windows" explained Stubley. McIntyre was sick of excuses, something was to be done, and he decided to do it.

McIntyre grabbed a hold of Clements, "Tell your men and the rest to pull out with the others. We'll sort out these bastards." Clements called his men to do as McIntyre suggested, and with that, they slinked back into the shadows. "So Captain, what's your plan?" asked Clements cockily. McIntyre kneeled with his back against the wall; he could feel the gaze of the sniper bearing down on him, yet behind his wall, he was safe.

Captain Clements grew impatient of watching McIntyre crouch beside the dilapidated wall, "Captain, what are we going to do?" he asked again. "All you need to do," replied McIntyre plainly, "is throw this grenade." McIntyre produced a large cylindrical device with the letters "AT" printed on them. Clements looked confused. McIntyre pointed to the base of the house and nodded. Clements looked at the odd-shaped grenade again. All it had was a large pin protruding from one end and the letters "AT". He shrugged his shoulders, "Oh well," he sighed, "here it goes." Clements pulled the pin from the grenade and threw it.

As the device descended toward the base of the blue house, McIntyre dove to the floor and covered his head. He looked up at Clements, who stood around waiting for something to happen, McIntyre grabbed Clements' trouser leg and pulled him down. Clements stumbled to the floor crying, "What was that for?" Just then, the grenade contacted the base of the house. A thunderous roar blew from the grenade and it shot off half of the house. Fire and masonry was sent blaring everywhere in a flurry of material that rained down around the two Captains.

Swiftly, McIntyre rose and armed the shotgun. "Come on!" he cried, "Get them while they're down!" McIntyre ran into the open house and its screen of smoke and dust. Clements picked himself up with his gun. He looked into the thick mist of dirty dust, it choked his vision; he couldn't see anything. From the vicinity of the house, a spattering sound shuddered through the cloud, then another, followed by two more, then silence. Clements fought his way through the sawdust and grit to find what he hoped to find.

McIntyre stood inside the remaining house, four dead Germans on the floor surrounding him; the damage to their bodies was extensive, one had had his arm torn straight off from the blast of McIntyre's shotgun. Blood dribbled into the cracks and broken floor, finally resting on the path. McIntyre looked to the amazed Clements and wiped some dirt from his face. He hopped down to meet with his friend and they walked off. "What the fuck was that I threw?" asked Clements. "American Anti-Tank grenade. Thought they'd come in handy one day. Never thought it would do that though: kill three Gerries and half a house." replied a content McIntyre. The two shared a laugh and walked on.

As both Captains reached the main road, Clements could see the last of the fleeing soldiers and decided to go with them. McIntyre was left alone on a dark main road in the middle of Holland, shotgun in hand. He reached for his metal flask and took a swig, the smooth taste of scotch scampered nicely down his throat. He looked to the sky and groaned to himself, "I never get a single bloody rest do I?" he shimmied his shoulders until he felt them click with satisfaction, and then began his path deep into Arnhem. The fate of many rested on his shoulders once more.


End file.
